


so be it

by gabrielledarling



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also there's a cat, Established Relationship, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, M/M, The fluffiest fluff, because that's a thing now, fresh off the fluff griddle, stress/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielledarling/pseuds/gabrielledarling
Summary: grantaire braids enjolras’ hair. this is indulgent fluff focused entirely on enjolras’ hair, because i have a problem. admission is the first step to recovery.





	so be it

"Goddamn it," Enjolras said, yanking the tie out of his hair and turning away from the mirror. "Fuck it. I'll wear it like this."

"You look like you just had an electric shock or something." Grantaire was lounging on the couch in a t-shirt and boxers. Their orange-spotted tabby cat, Lady—after Lady Liberty, of course—was a curled-up ball of fur atop his stomach.

Enjolras stood before him, half-dressed, in a button-up and bow-tie, but no pants. His thick, frizzy blonde hair stuck out in all directions. "So be it."

Grantaire sat up, and Lady migrated to his thigh. "You can't wear it like that to the conference; you're giving a speech."

Enjolras turned back to the mirror, twisting a strand of snarly hair. "Maybe I'll just cut it all off."

"Over my dead body," Grantaire replied emphatically. "Hey, hang on. Why don't I give it a shot?"

Enjolras turned, eyebrow raised. "I hate to break it to you, but your hair doesn't look much better."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "Not _my_ hair. I've got a sister, remember? I can braid."

Enjolras looked doubtful.

"I can do French braids, Dutch braids…I can make you look like Princess Leia, with those little bun thingies over your ears, if you want. I'm good."

Enjolras checked his watch. He was the only guy Grantaire knew who actually _owned_ a watch anymore. When Grantaire had asked, Enjolras had shrugged and blushed. "I dunno," he'd said, by way of explanation. "It makes me feel...adult-y."

After that, Grantaire didn't ask. He wasn't going to be the thing standing in between a twenty-four-year old Enjolras and "feeling adult-y."

"Get over here, you dork," he said, in the tone of voice he usually reserved for Lady. Enjolras started to come forward. Grantaire tossed a pillow to the rug, and Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "You gotta sit on the floor. You're too damn tall."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but he slid onto the cushion, cross-legged, his back impossibly straight. Grantaire boxed Enjolras' shoulders in with his legs.

"Brush," he said, and Enjolras held up the brush he'd been wrestling with in front of the mirror. Grantaire took a strand of Enjolras' hair into his hand and began to brush. As he swept the brush over Enjolras' blond head, he could feel him relaxing. Enjolras' shoulders sank slowly, beginning near his ears and ending at the base of his neck.

"Mm," Enjolras hummed.

"Was that you or Lady?"

"Shut up," Enjolras said, but Grantaire could hear the smile in his voice.

When Enjolras' hair was sufficiently tangle-free, Grantaire worked his hands into his scalp. Enjolras leaned into his touch, and Grantaire felt a small smile creep onto his face. He sectioned off the top of Enjolras' head and began to braid—one strand over another, over another, over another.

"Hair-tie," he said, and Enjolras handed it to him. Grantaire tied off the French braid, leaving a few strands loose.

Enjolras reached back to touch his hair. "Done?"

"No touching," Grantaire said, holding Enjolras' hand away from his masterpiece. He reluctantly opened the box of his legs. "See for yourself."

Enjolras extracted himself from Grantaire and went to the mirror. He turned his head this way, then that way. When he turned back, he was smiling.

Grantaire, who couldn't resist, kissed his fingertips like an Italian chef. " _Bellissimo_. Next time we're going Dutch."

Enjolras was touching his hair in wonder, completely ignoring Grantaire's warning. "This is amazing! How did I not know you could do this?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Doesn't come up much? You're pretty particular about your hair, usually. Hey, wha—?"

Enjolras had crossed the room and climbed into his lap before he could finish his question. He pressed a kiss to the spot below Grantaire's ear, a loose strand of his hair brushing Grantaire's cheek.

"That was...nice," Enjolras murmured.

Grantaire grinned into Enjolras' cheek. "You liked it. You _liked_ it."

"Don't make this dirty."

"Oh, honey, this was dirty before I got here," Grantaire said, running his hands under Enjolras' button-up. "Now it's filthy. Disgusting. Positively perverse."

"Shut up," Enjolras said, pushing Grantaire's own curls away from his face and kissing him. Grantaire grabbed the undersides of Enjolras' thighs, where soft, blonde hairs ran rampant, and let himself be guided onto his back.

"You're going to be late," Grantaire whispered.

"So be it."

* * *

 

Lady Liberty, sitting forgotten on the armrest, looked with disdain at the ongoing spectacle. She'd been subjected to such a sight more times than she could count. She launched herself off the couch and padded off to search, in vain, for a spot as comfortable as Grantaire's belly.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos and/or like if you enjoyed! it’ll warm my cold, dead heart.


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